


Hold On

by sinisterkid92



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Smut, barely plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 12:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15219071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinisterkid92/pseuds/sinisterkid92
Summary: Some shameless somewhat canon-compliant smut taking place post 2x07.





	Hold On

**Author's Note:**

> I got a little spiteful so I wrote some smut out of spite so I hope this is alright. Haven't done this in a while. Oh, no beta just "wrote and post"

She didn’t lie to Wyatt, not then. Nothing happened the first time she spent the night in Flynn’s bunker. They drank and they talked about music they loved, rummaged through spotify playlists on the bunker iPad that was technically Jiya and Rufus for work-only things that she had snuck away (not so stealthily already on wobbly feet from the vodka) to steal from the work-bay. The iPad quickly shifted hands as they played song after song, traveling back and forth in time with more ease than the Lifeboat could ever manage. 

It should have been awkward lying next to him again propped up against his pillow as they discussed songs. She played the song that she and her sister would dance around the kitchen, and he introduced her to Croatian songs he’d grown up with in Yugoslavia (and then the songs his mother would play, not often because songs she used to like reminded her too much of Gabriel). 

The second time she stayed with Flynn, the same night after returning from the Women’s March and Wyatt, like most tone-deaf men, questioned her about the choices she made in her own life. Patronizing. She joked with him after, smiled. Placated his feelings because that’s what she did. Don’t make someone angry. Don’t confront people. There’s no need for unnecessary friction, that would lead nowhere. Growing up with her mother she knew the backside of not letting things go. 

It was different with Flynn. She could argue with him, fight him. At first because he was the enemy, he wasn’t anyone she was supposed to be nice towards. Then, when he still liked her despite fighting him, it was because she knew he would stick around. He wasn’t one of those people who presented themselves as always justified, never doing anything morally grey. He believed he was doing the right thing, yet knew the things he was doing to achieve it were not good. That was a comfort, finding someone who accepted the ambiguity of doing what was right, of being human.

There were questions to be answered, to herself. Was it really the best thing to be doing this, so soon after being burnt? Would it, really truly, help or hurt her if she does this? What happens when, if, she gets burnt again? What was the worst that could happen? Didn’t she deserve something good, even if it was a blip and gone again?

She was familiar with heartbreak by now. By losing what she got her hands on. There was nothing to do to prepare herself for it, to make it hurt less. There were two choices she could make; she could live safe, keep herself roped off and distan to keep the hurt away but also miss out on living; or she could live, she could risk being hurt but also have the chance to live happily. If only for a while.

Foolish or not, Lucy had always been weak for the pleasures of the flesh. It was the sort of thing which, had she had a religious upbringing, would have been attached to a big dose of shame. Luckily for her, that was one dogma her mother abstained from. If she were to choose she’d pick religion over Rittenhouse any day of the week. Even if it came with the shame attached to sexuality. 

Nevertheless, that wasn’t the case. 

Men rarely experienced that sort of shame, even the religious kind. Propped full with pride over their virility, spreading their seed was the sort of conquering that most, if not all, religions depended on. Flynn grew up religious, his father a devout Catholic as was his wife. There was something about him now and it wasn’t just the speech of a bereaved father and husband, the faith he once had (if he ever had it) was no longer there. God was not attached to any specific ideology, if there existed any god at all. She could see in him that the thought was freeing in and of itself, that no god he loved had taken his family from him. 

He felt no shame, though there was hesitancy in him. 

A new step, they always took courage. A step away from them, the ones he grieved, was a big leap he never thought he’d make. Live his life in solitude, celibacy and grief. A penance for his crimes, for failing to protect them and save them that night and the things he’d done to get them back. Yet, here she was offering penance for his crimes. Warmth where he expected to live detached. 

She didn’t come to him with the iPad tucked under her arm, nor the vodka for courage. No pretence, no nothing but herself. There was the risk he’d turn her away but she’d seen his hands twitch when she rested her head on his chest, heard his breath hitch. There was a risk and she was willing to take it.

This is how it went.

The door creaked shut behind them. They’d stood face to face just inside the door while his hand gestured for her to take her place in the room, anywhere. She didn’t. Her feet stayed planted in front of him and her head craned to look up at him (he was tall, she’d noted that before but knowing what she was about to do it did something in her belly, the thought of jumping up in his arms and wrapping her legs around him, how he’d crowd her so completely). He must have understood her intentions because he frowned down at her, as if to ask her why but not quite daring to let his mouth speak. 

So, she pushed up on her toes, reaching her arms around his neck to pull him down toward her. He came willingly, albeit confused still. His lips were still at first as she pressed her mouth against him, but he didn’t move from her. She moved away, just a little to open her eyes and look into his. There was some shock in them, some fascination. Testing still she licked his lips, just a little, teasingly, to test his reaction. No, she wanted to say, she wasn’t just here to kiss him. 

He fell into her then, heavy and clumsy that she fell back a few steps until he caught her. Wrapped his arms around her and pulled her flush against him her feet off the ground and it swirled in her stomach this sudden need, it almost hurt. 

His tongue, mouth, against hers still tasted like the air of the early 20th century. Teeth nipped at her lips and she smiled because yes, there was no holding back. 

He pulled away. “I’m not your revenge,” he said, a low warning in his tone despite the heaviness of his breathing and the blown pupils. “I’m not going to fuck you so you can get one-up on Wyatt.” 

She loved the way he said _fuck you_ , the intensity in his voice and his eyes. The anger. It should have sent alarm bells, it wasn’t the sort of thing that should turn her on. He shouldn’t turn her on at all, not after the things he’d done. To her, to her friends, to so many people. 

“This isn’t about him.” She brushed her nose against his, he captured her mouth for a bruising kiss. 

“What is this?” he asked, their breath hanging between them heavy and thick. 

“Living.” There was something between them, something heavy and undefined. The uncertainty of what the journal meant for their futures, the connection between them that no one else shared. “Live with me.”

Live, breathe, experience, do all the things that living full out entails. Succumb to the pleasures of the flesh, crave and fuck and kiss and love until god banishes you from his kingdom for having experienced heaven on earth already. That kind of madwoman talking filled her head, delirious with the realization she still could. 

They stumbled to the bed, she walking backward until she fell over and pulling him with her. The bed screamed as it scraped across the floor. She giggled, for a moment, before his kisses stopped them. He was heavy above her and for the first time in a long time it didn’t feel like she was falling apart. More of that weight was what she wanted. She pulled at him, pulled them both onto the bed. 

Between her legs she could already feel him straining against the tightness of his jeans, pressed against her with a promise. Thoughts were waning, disappearing and unconnected. Clothes were discarded to, how she could barely keep up with. Later, another time, she would trace her hands across his torso where scars old and new marred his flesh, somehow making it even more beautiful with the pale slashes upon pale skin. 

Later was not now, now he was between her legs, arms hugging them away from her body, hans placed on her abdomen to hold her still, his tongue against her clit mouth wrapped around her and – oh, this was where she lost track of time, of her own flesh and body. She held on as best she could, one hand clutching the frame of the bed above her and the other hand gripping his hair trying to hold on. What a foolish endeavour, to try to not get lost in him. 

Holding on did no good, she didn’t want it to. She fell apart, fell, lightening crashing behind her eyelids white noise cursing through her head as her body became not her body. Every nerve-ending was livewire, just a touch and she would combust again. He did not let her come together, not until he took her all the way through. Did not rest his head on her belly until she started breathing again. 

She figured she was supposed to be sated. Bones jellied and barely coherent she grasped at him, she didn’t have anywhere near enough. There was one thing about orgasms, indescribable and wonderful, so great that adjectives like wonderful and great were close to blasphemous for its inability to match up to what it truly was. It wasn’t what she wanted most of tonight though. She wanted him, inside her, wanting him fucking her and losing himself in her. She wanted that power over a man, that even as he towered above her in a display of masculine power, she knew that it was with her the power truly lay. To watch the most put together stoic men tremble and fall while in her was addictive, maybe that was what drew her to the act the most. The knowledge of powers she possessed. 

He was completely in on it, she could see it. See it in his drowsy smile as he looked at her. Knowing that him giving her pleasure and her giving him pleasure was all in her power. He was putty in her arms. Strong, still, as he crawled up her body and settled between her legs as she cradled him to her.

“You okay?” he whispered. She could feel him against her, his whole body pressed against hers. She nodded, expecting him to not give it a single pause, that he would finally press into her and she would once again face the stars. Instead he brushed her body, slower this time than before (before he crawled between her legs, when they kissed and touched so feverently she barely remembered or could keep up.) He cupped her breasts, fit them completely into his hands. 

She moved her hips, pushed up towards him. Not now. There would be times they could take it slow, explore another body again. Discover anew, another flesh of someone they cared about, someone they trusted to let go and give in completely. 

He took the cue. Though later on it would be slow, he seethed himself inside her in one thrust, emptying her lungs of air. She grabbed onto him, pushing him further in, impossibly close. He was big, she could feel herself full and stretching to accommodate him. As she tried to catch her breath he pulled out of her slowly, a teasing stroke before he slammed back in, the bed screeching against the floor as it moved, and the little air she managed to suck in was against pushed out. She whined, happily tortured by his teasing.

“Garcia,” she flexed her hips. “Please.” It was barely more than a breath but he heard her.

He took one of her arms, pulling it over his neck to grasp around his neck. “Hold on,” he replied in her ear.


End file.
